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Poem

Several days of chilly spring weather had been messin' with the dogwood, but Sunday 
mornin' dawned Georgia warm and the dogwood smiled. Steamin' mugs in hand, Big Mama's 
babies took their places 'neath the saggin' roof of the carport, breathin' in the 
caramelized aroma of monkey bread that was teasin' them from her oven. Once she had them 
all full and sassy-like, Big Mama wrapped them up with her story voice and took them to 
her special places, her memory places. And as she spoke, they were right there with her, 
ridin' that camel 'round the pyramids, walkin' the French Quarter with her in her theater 
days, and slidin' down the mossy rocks of Hurricane Shoals while her daddy looked on. A 
heap a love was goin' 'round that circle of Big Mama's babies, but after a long bit, a 
little sadness started bitin' their ankles. It was gettin' close to leavin' time, when 
they'd be draggin' a piece of their hearts down old Maysville highway, headin' home to 
babies of their own; lookin' forward to the next time they'd be sittin' 'round with Big 
Mama, lettin' her hug 'em up good, with more of her fine cookin' and her "mamaanems".

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